


The White Noise

by Sasha



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark John Watson, Drabble, POV John, Sherlock Got It Wrong, mention of deaths, mention of war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-14 02:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16031228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sasha/pseuds/Sasha
Summary: John remembers how Sherlock and Mycroft got it wrong. How even their genius minds did not deduce it right. How neither of them have realized that they were wrong, even years later.





	The White Noise

**Author's Note:**

> The idea struck me last time I watched ASIP, it took me a couple of months to actually write something about it but here you go.
> 
> As usual thank you to the lovely @the_hopeless_existentialist for being an amazing beta!

Sometimes, when Sherlock is too difficult and their flat suffocates him, John remembers those first few days viciously. He remembers how Sherlock and Mycroft got it wrong. How even their genius minds did not deduce it right. How neither of them have realized that they were wrong, even years later.

Sometimes it’s the boredom. Sherlock turns like a lion in a cage, going from the sofa to his chair, to the window, to the sofa, to the fireplace, to the kitchen, to the desk, to the chair, to the window. The maddening way he plays the violin. The way he sprawls on the sofa, his body only half hidden under his dressing gown. John does not move during these times. He holds his newspaper open, his eyes blind to the words. Yet, in his mind the gun feels like a heavy promise between his fingers.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, when even London is silent, John stares at the ceiling as sleep evades him. There, where no one is looking or listening, he lets the fantasy come alive.  
That day in the park, he turns before he reaches the bench and everything changes. Mike does not see him. And he walks for hours, his legs dragging him slowly through the smoky streets of the city. When he gets home, the gun is waiting for him, and with it the certainty of peace and relief.  
Back in his bed, John closes his eyes and remembers how vivid and real the memories were at that time: in his little bedsit, with the grey walls and the grey blanket, the screams and the shrieks echo through his mind. He could feel the dirt under his fingernails, his knuckles caked with dried up blood and the drum of his heartbeat in his temples. The hands grasping at his clothes, the fingers digging into his flesh with desperation, when he could do nothing but let them die in the sand... do nothing but go and put a bullet in someone’s else head.  
And then the relief, the white noise and the complete bliss flowed through him like a soothing wave.

His therapist was wrong. His hand did not tremble because he was afraid of the war.  
Sherlock wasn’t completely wrong, but he never figured out the whole truth either. His hand was not trembling just because he needed adrenaline, or danger.  
His hand trembled because it needed the gun.  
And the gun was not for his own head.

Lying in his bed, John opens his eyes again. He doesn’t need the white noise to keep his hand from trembling anymore. He has Sherlock now, and the detective works so much better than the bullets he wanted so badly to put into brains.

John rolls on his side and burrows into the covers. He falls asleep with the memory of the white noise in his mind, when he put a bullet in the taxi driver.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this small bit of writing. You can find me on tumblr @thefrenchweirdone :)


End file.
